


Definitions

by theresamooseloose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theresamooseloose/pseuds/theresamooseloose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's definitions are a world apart; but they find common ground to understand.</p><p>Short non-linear drabbles with cheesy undertones u v u)/</p><p>Also these are written with the inclination that Sherlock and John are currently in a romantic relationship o v o</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. love and devotion

Theirs was an unspoken love.

One in which ‘I love you’s came in the form of gazes that held a moment too long, but are never mentioned, in the form of cups of tea after heated disagreements as a silent peace offering, in the form of spaces made in the fridge because John complains about the pig’s eyes; but never in such explicit verbal form.

 

 

love

      _noun_

1\. A strong feeling of affection.

 

 

Affection is a terribly and sickeningly sweet word, Sherlock muses. John understands.

Affection is cuddling on the sofa. It is spending as much energy as one can exert wanting to please another. Sherlock does not understand affection. Or he does not like it. Both are plausible, John thinks.

Affection doesn’t suit Sherlock in the generic sense, so he tries devotion.

 

 

devotion

      _noun_

1\. Loyalty or enthusiasm for a person or activity.

 

 

Loyalty, Sherlock can understand. He can measure loyalty with empirical evidence, in how many people he treats as he treats John.

John is the only one he can treat like John.

His enthusiasm for John is never obvious; Sherlock despises the obvious, and so he tightly wraps it up and presents it with subtlety. He never tears the paper that would reveal his true reasoning for coaxing John through deductions, or seeking his medical opinion. He wants to watch how smart he is. Because John is smart – by ‘normal’ standards, at least – and Sherlock likes to remind himself sometimes.

And this is how he expresses himself.

Not with cards, containing empty and meaningless words. Not with chocolate that could not even begin to replicate the intoxicating taste of John’s lips. Not with cologne that dilutes and dirties the raw and musty smell of his doctor. But with understated, tiny, meaningless gestures. Except they are not meaningless, are they?

 

They are Sherlock’s gestures of love; however abstract they may be.

Because Sherlock does not suit love, or affection. 

And John knows.

And John accepts.

And John loves him anyway.

 


	2. happy

John thinks that Sherlock finds happiness in the bottom of test tubes and trips to the morgue. Only the way in which his eyes flicker to life with a text from Lestrade, or a case that rates 8+ makes john notice how dull they looked beforehand.

John is not wrong.

He is, however, blissfully unaware of his own effect on the detective, or at least, acts as if he is so. 

Sherlock takes great care to note small creases at the corner of John’s eyes when he laughs. The way his ears twitch up and his teeth glint through his lips. Sherlock hungers for those moments and drinks every detail when he has the privilege of being the audience to such a display. So, where he can, he will make John laugh, and get as drunk on happiness as he pleases from such a delicious spectacle.

 

 

happy

      _adjective_

1\. Feeling or showing pleasure or contentment.

 

 

To compare the happiness John brought Sherlock would be seen in the same light as comparing a good meal to Sebastian Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. The scales are simply so momentously different a comparison could not be derived.

Lestrade often – against the wishes of the younger Holmes – recounts Sherlock’s past endeavors to John. Ones of dangerous habits and dwindling hope. Sherlock sees no point in this; it does little but worry the doctor where he needn’t. He is here and present now. He is here and he has John; what use has he for recreational substances?

From this, John concludes that he is _good_ for him, yes, but fails to acknowledge the happiness that he causes to seep in to Sherlock’s every pore.

 

John makes him tea that he never drinks. This makes Sherlock happy.

John does all he can to coax a meal in to him; fears for his health. This makes Sherlock happy.

John can recognize when normality begins to fray at his sanity and actively seeks out precarious cases. This makes Sherlock happy.

John will take the wheel in a conversation when he simply cannot stand to utter another word. This makes Sherlock happy.

John apologizes to those he chastises; worries for his reputation. This makes Sherlock happy.

John continually reminds him that ‘this is a bad idea’, but follows him anyway. This makes Sherlock happy.

John _knows_ him, for all his imperfections and annoyances, but never fails to stand constantly by his side. This makes Sherlock happy.

 

Put quite simply; John makes Sherlock happy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also if y'all wanna send me a note or leave me a comment with a specific word you'd like a chapter written about then I'll see what I can do o v o)/


	3. safe

It was worth it.

Never with such severity could Sherlock make this claim but in regards to this; it was worth it.

Eluding actual demise was one thing, but watching John’s face as he jumped to his ‘death’ was an image burned in to his retinas. How he wished he could have reached out to John as his pulse was checked with hope. He longed to touch him; wanting to catalogue and memorize that delicious heat and contact as the last he would feel for endless months to come.

And even then, even before the intimacy had been woven in to the tapestry of ‘Sherlock and John’ he could still see how it frayed and tore at John. It was all in the cracking and trembling of his voice and it damn near ripped his threadbare heart out altogether.

He hated it, oh _god_ did he hate it. But it was worth it.

Worth it to keep him safe.

 

 

safe

      _adjective_

1\. Protected from or not exposed to danger or risk; not likely to be harmed or lost.

2\. Not likely to cause or lead to harm or injury; not involving danger or risk.

 

 

There is no worth in deluding himself or anyone else that the life he chooses to live is free from danger. He _lives_ for the risk; wants it pumping through his veins alongside adrenaline as he chases murderers or gambles chances on the dwindling side of probability for a positive outcome.

John does everything in his power to warn him, to protect him, to keep him _safe_ , but he does not restrict him. For this, Sherlock is eternally grateful. Since before Sherlock can remember parents, counselors, friends, colleagues have all but done their best to enclose him. To control him _‘for your own safety’,_ is the clarifying chant they all murmur to him.

The don’t understand that he _can’t._

He has been given a choice, it seems.

It is either _danger_ , or his _own choice of coping mechanisms_ , and it would appear one is decidedly more distasteful in the eyes of all who associate with him.

And yet they all expect him to have neither.

That isn’t fair, is it?

Surely he should be allowed a choice.

So he chooses; danger.

And for all that John does to gently deter him, or offer _safer_ options, he never, _never_ makes him choose between The Game, and John.

Because he simply cannot live without either.

And he is glad John recognises this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'safe' - suggested by 1butterfly_grl1


	4. constant

It is simple logic, really.

John _is_.

As a result of this Sherlock, also, _is._

John’s presence and existence is synonymous to Sherlock’s own.

 

 

constant

      _adjective_

1\. Occurring continuously over a period of time.

 

 

John is a constant in Sherlock’s otherwise impulsive regime.

There is consistency in the time at which he wakes. In how long he takes showering. In what jumper he will wear at certain humidity. In how many times he will chide to Sherlock that ‘your tea will go cold if you just leave it and I _know_ you can hear me’. He can; but he says nothing, because it will break the constancy.

John tells him 3 times before the chilled liquid is thrown away.

He makes it for him every morning, nonetheless.

 

 

constant

   _noun_

1\. A situation that does not change.

 

 

Sherlock does not lose himself.

Or at least, he likes to think he doesn’t lose himself.

He enjoys and molds a fine and respectable image for himself; one of composure and intellect.

An image that, however resilient and consistent in his mind, manages to ebb and wane at decided moments.

Moments on cases. Moments when, no matter how many doors of his Mind Palace he opens and closes and revisits and closes and opens again and recloses, nothing makes _sense._ The answer is _there._ It is _right there_ _staring him in the face_ and he cannot see it. How can he not see it? Moments when a multitude of voices whispering, or talking, or screeching in to his head cause him to cradle his skull in his hands, as if squeezing his scalp will wring the voices out of his brain like a saturated sponge.

And then John will appear silently next to him, barely causing the cushion beneath them to shift with his weight.

Saying nothing.

Adding nothing to the horrendous layers of choruses that aren’t even coherent anymore among their polyphonic texture and heightened crescendo.

And John’s hand will place itself at the small of his back, and it’s as if he’s suddenly the conductor that has provided a perfect cadence to the mess of an orchestral endeavor.

Screeching diminishes to talking, which diminish to whispers.

And then there is silence.

And then there is John.

 

Because John is a pillar that does more than support his weight when his legs buckle under the unimaginable weight of knowledge and theories chittering and eroding his lucidity. John goes further as he pushes back with just as much force; a force so strong that not only does it support Sherlock, but it propels him.

 

Sherlock _needs_ John to be his one of few constants, and John appears more than happy to oblige.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'constant' - suggested by 1butterfly_grl1


	5. home

Home had been where his parents and sister lived.

Then home had been student accommodation just 2 blocks from St Bart’s hospital where he completed his training; a simple block of flats cramped to the brim with adolescents teeming with potential and eager to face the harshest brunt that life could throw.

Then John’s definition of home blurred.

Afghanistan allowed no such definitions to hold intrinsic meaning. There was no sense of comfort to be found in the endless carpet of dirt, or quilt of sullied and bloodied clothes, or Sunday dinner of whatever scraps he was allocated, accompanied with wine of clear and simple water.

And in the myriad of flashes and gunfire, a single bullet would pierce his shoulder, and thus contain the power to cast him back to where he could reform his indistinct definition of the word.

 

 

home

     _noun_

1\. The place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.

 

 

House. John _had_ a house. Or a flat, if one wanted to be precise. He _lived_ in his _flat_ , where he would have planned to _live permanently_ , should he have had the money.

John tries to reason that he had to refabricate his definition of ‘home’, and so he had no right to say whether or not what he currently described as ‘home’ was right or wrong…but it really did feel as though it leaned towards the latter.

 

He’d had a home, with his mum and his dad and his sister. He remembers this…though he could never isolate what gave it its definition of a home. Family? Where he slept? Where he’d had his Sunday dinners?

And so he’d wandered and wondered if those factors all aligned to conclude that he would never have a home again; not of his current family, anyway. He’d have to search and work, he’d supposed.

Never had he expected that the serendipitous meeting of Mike Stamford would result in a home essentially falling in to his lap. Not at first, of course. At first it was another just flat, one he shared with a bizarre man who played the violin and barely ate and used the words ‘murder’ and ‘fun’ in the same sentence and kept body parts in the fridge and other remains in the bath and desired danger but then at some point – a point that John couldn’t pinpoint – it had become a flat he shared with a man whose company he had come to accommodate and then enjoy and then crave.

When it had been a _flat_ , viscera on the table made him wretch and screech; now, in his _home,_ it means The Safety Gloves must be worn.

When it had been a _flat_ , there was Sherlock’s Things and John’s Things; now, in his _home_ , the lines between the two had all but dissipated.

When it was a _flat_ , Chinese takeaways were a lazy alternative for two men who couldn’t spare the effort to cook; now, in his _home_ , it was Sunday dinner.

It had become…a home.

Where home had once meant somewhere to exist, now – with Sherlock – home meant somewhere to _live_.

Though, he’d never associated it with the detective.

Not until Sherlock’s very existence was ripped from him.

And as realization dawned that he was gone, gone never to return, John’s ‘home’ was slowly pried out of his grasping fingers, no matter how desperately he tried to claw it back in to his possession.

 

Again; he had a flat. But nothing he could call a home.

 

And then, by some miracle from a God in which he didn’t believe, his definition returned.

It was met with boiling rage, swinging fists and expletives galore; no less than he deserved.

Slowly, so _very_ slowly, he allowed the definition to seep back. It started as it had before; a flat with another man. Then, a flat with a charming man. Then, a flat with an impossibly necessary man. Then with a man whom he’d follow to hell and back (and he’s sure that will become a reality some day).

John had a home again. A home in which he realized; his home is where Sherlock lays.

 

********************

 

John leant over the arm of his stout chair to pick up 221B’s dictionary, from its home of the floor, and splayed it open in his lap. The paper hissed softly as he turned the pages to locate the desired word. He murmured the words displayed at the top of the page at delayed intervals, “hide…high…hijab…hip…hit…hobby…hold…holster…” yes, here we are.

With a pen held readily in his hand he defiantly added blotched and warped lines to and over the printed and precise ones; their distinction obvious where he added to his pleasure.

From the sofa rose a low and rumbling voice, laced with sarcasm and light humor (if you trained your ear to hear such a thing in the detective’s voice).

“Ah, re-writing the dictionary, are we? I applauded your naivety; few would take on such a momentous task.”

John simply smiled in response as he completed his editing. The dictionary thudded shut and was placed back to its original location, probably far too carefully considering the floor was its current place of residence.

“Just some corrections.”

 

home

     _noun_

1\. The place where ~~one~~ _SHERLOCK_ lives ~~permanently, especially~~ as a member of ~~a~~ family ~~or household.~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'home' - suggested by duperstar
> 
> Oh god I really can't tell if this one turned out okay but longest chapter yet whoo


	6. synchronicity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for leaving this for a few days; a bad cold has made my productivity drop considerably =v=)a;;

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me”.

 

Always ever a single pillar of reason and integrity (and certainly no room to balance emotions or sentiment).

As pillars go, he would claim he stood prouder and taller than most others (with exceptions in the form of a gloating brother, but he’d sooner crumble than have to admit that).

He was resilient, elegant, hard wearing, encased in a fine polish that never flaked or wore.

 _‘Never’_ , is what he tells himself, but scuffs and scratches are evident all over, formed where prying fingers had delicately dissected at the layer and attempted to peel it off to expose the vulnerable underbelly of what lay beneath.

He would act in a flash.

Inquiring fingers pushed out.

New layer of polish.

There. Done; as if nothing ever happened.

Except there was always lingering evidence.

Each time the application of polish became sloppier and more frantic.

More easily overlooked; as if a quick paintjob would make the repairal easier. So long as it was quick, it didn’t need to be done properly, yes?

 

No 

The stone is laced thick and bumpy with layer upon layer of half hearted attempts of restoration.

And so _no more_ , he decrees.

All he needs is himself.

All he needs is to act for himself.

All he needs is to be alone.

 

 

synchronicity

      _noun_

1\. The simultaneous occurrence of events which appear significantly related but have no discernable casual connection.

 

 

It started with a tiny scratching at his outer layer.

Sherlock huffs and sighs and addresses the intruder.

An army doctor.

He bats the immaterial intrusion away; it was small enough that a simple dismissal would suffice. No need to let such things interfere by attempting to add to his already primed post.

But it paws again.

And again he strikes it.

It returns often. Usually with every quirk of a smile on the doctor’s face that matches his own. With every fleeting chase in which he feels John’s feet thudding on the cold cobbles of the pavement in time with his own. With every beat of their pulses, pressed up against one another through the flesh of their naked chests, and he swears (though such sentimentality could be laughed at) that the thumps matched in time. And by this time, after the resilient nature of the intruding probing, Sherlock simply hadn’t the resistance to continue rebuffing it.

And so it joins him.

A pillar next to his own.

It’s different and yet…contains so many of the same attributes of his own. It’s sturdier, more stubborn and yet, more malleable. It leans on Sherlock’s, and where this once would have appalled the detective, he allows it. He allows the identically opposite column to invade his space, to adopt and imitate attributes, to allow Sherlock to adopt some of his own and to do things as one in the same.

 

And Sherlock can see now, that having and accommodating and even synchronizing with another pillar doesn’t have to be a distraction or threat; it can make him so much stronger.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'synchronicity' - suggested by 1butterfly_grl1 
> 
> Also I'm not sure if this worked well as a really long extended metaphor but I thought it was okay so yeeee


	7. faith

John had no faith, to speak of.

Nothing wherein he held belief in a divine power of omnipotence.

Had he had such belief, it would have been eradicated after Afghanistan; surely no loving God would allow the atrocities he saw there.

So no.

He had no faith, as such.

 

 

faith

      _noun_

1\. Complete trust or confidence in someone or something.

2\. Strong belief in the doctrines of a religion, based on spiritual conviction rather than proof.

 

 

While no celestial being would convince John to follow blindly, there was an extraordinary man.

He does think of him as a man; no matter how often he likes to jibe that he is partially mechanical in his methods and even material.

Though when John thinks about it, he draws more and more similarities between the devotion of religious followers to his own devotion to the detective.

It was only Sherlock that could grant him comfort and reassurance in pressing situations.

Because Sherlock was smart.  
Because Sherlock _knew_ what the criminal’s next move would be, down to the last detail.

Not unlike an omniscient God.

Because Sherlock has the power to bend and mold people’s will to his advantage.

Not unlike an omnipotent God.

Though, where the comparison draws short is in the question of his omnibenevolence.

John can see it, even if others lack the keen eye to notice it.

The way in which Sherlock won’t snap, or in which he consciously makes an effort to appear less intimidating when interrogating a grieving widow, or a frightened child.

He needs answers, of course, and while he persists that sentimentality or a precarious and tentative approach needn’t be taken towards a victim’s relatives (‘It won’t help me solve it any faster, so what’s the point?’), he slacks his shoulders and lowers his tone – a subtle compromise to being cautious.

He doesn’t _actually_ hold concern for them, John knows this, but he appreciates and admires that Sherlock makes it at least _seem_ as if he does.

John sees and feels it and can appreciate it in all it’s goodness – though he understands others in their lack of gratitude for it.

They appear to only look for his vices, and brush over his achievements.

Which isn’t fair, John concludes.

But it doesn’t appear to worry Sherlock.

Sherlock, who remains unmoved by abuse hissed at him.

Sherlock, who qualms the bereaved with the solid promise of swift justice.

Sherlock, who revels in the satisfaction of debauching the plans of a man who preys on the different or vulnerable.

Sherlock, who can appreciate beauty where others cannot.

And most of all; Sherlock, with whom John could close his eyes and trust implicitly that he’d be guided to safety.

Because he believes in the goodness of Sherlock.

 

He believes in Sherlock Holmes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing in a loooong time so sorry if it's awful =v=)a;;
> 
> This'll work in a sense that I'll try writing each chapter with one definition at it's core.
> 
> If anyone has any words they'd like a chapter written on send me a note or leave a comment and I'll do what I can o v o)/


End file.
